


Felidae; or, How Jon Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace the Catboy

by Serendipital



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Modification, Cat/Human Hybrids, Catboy Jon, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, The Magnus Archives Season 1, also kinda serious abt the implications of transforming into something, among all the hijinks, but it all works out in the end, i like happy endings, if that sweetens the pot for anyone, in that it's not the main goal of the fic but i mean some things are fixed for sure, is slowburn catboy a thing, ok actually, that is not you but now MUST be you, this is a workplace dramady (?) about catboy jon that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serendipital/pseuds/Serendipital
Summary: A late night in the Archives, a well-disguised Leitner, and Jon is on a one-way trip to feline transmogrification. Now Jon must 1) avoid further humiliation from his coworkers and 2) reverse his transformation before becoming a cat entirely--all while the web he's been wrapped in for decades begins to unravel.Really, it's all for the best.
Relationships: (background), Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker
Comments: 63
Kudos: 136





	1. The only sure camouflage is unpredictability.

**Author's Note:**

> You can see my track record, so no promises on finishing this. But I've got some more written already, and this will be a fairly short fic with some dumb fun; way less ambitious than previous projects--and also hardly edited! Sorry about that. Here's hoping the idea train keeps rolling! Literally I just could not resist furthering the catboy jon agenda
> 
> I also literally cannot stop using em-dashes I'm so sorry

The Archives were as dim as usual, but Jon could practically feel it getting darker as the end of the work day neared. He had a crick in his neck and a cramp in his hand, but his work was never done--and soon he’d be without the chatter of his coworkers outside his door and could finally get some proper work done. For now, though...he groaned, tapping his forehead briefly against his desk. They were discussing a particularly difficult follow-up (though he couldn’t make out much beyond the rumble of their voices), and had the right to do so, but damn if it didn’t completely eliminate his ability to concentrate today. No recordings for him then--though he’d recorded a particularly...taxing one earlier this week, so he hadn’t really planned on it.

No--Jon scanned his desk, looking for a lighter task to do, but all of the stack folders were practically bursting with material. Then he stood up and paced around the room, pulling bins off of the messy shelves lining the walls. More folders crammed-full of content that he would usually be eager to dig into, but had to force his hands past for now. And finally...there. He’d barely noticed it; in fact, his eyes had seemed to skip right over it, but Jon plucked a manila folder off the shelf, pleased to see it was practically paper-thin. No label, as expected, but with a satisfied hum he brought the file back to his desk, sitting down with only the slightest wince for his back.

The folder was completely empty, aside from a small pamphlet that slipped out onto the table with a sad ‘plat’. Jon took a moment, as he so often did these days, to pinch the bridge of his nose in the hopes of fending off an impending migraine. Another remnant of Gertrude’s organizational system.

But, well. There was something in here, and that needed to be filed away, _properly_ , somewhere, so Jon let go of his nose to properly inspect the pamphlet. It had _Felidae_ in a gold, curly font on the front, a silhouette of a cat sitting primly underneath. The fold and shape of it was almost like a travel brochure--a remnant of an adoption event, maybe? Though he really wasn’t sure what supernatural nonsense someone could make of an _adoption_ event, of all things. A themed party, then. Something of the sort. A statement giver went a little too heavy on the alcohol and this was all they had to show of it.

He shook his head, the chain of his glasses jingling against his cheek. Back to business. Spreading the pamphlet open on the table with one hand, he dragged a nearby notepad over for notes on further research, not that he expected it to be especially necessary. Still--as Head Archivist he needed to be thorough, no matter how disbelieving he was of everything that crossed his desk. 

The first section was a Leeds address and phone number, along with the tagline “The Year of the Cat--Feli-yay!” Tacky. Jon noted down the information regardless, tapping the end of the pen twice on the page before continuing. “Year of the Cat” would need to be looked into. The next few sections were short phrases interspersed with more stylized silhouettes, espousing the elegance and cleverness of cats, their sharp claws and powerful hind muscles. Nothing particularly unique, but still, relevant or not, he felt the need to read through it carefully. After another illustrated banner, he found what he deemed the true body of the pamphlet:

“Join us in celebrating the Year of the Cat; embrace the predator, not the prey! Take control of your life claws-first and learn from the best how to be on top of the food chain in an ever-changing world. All inquiries welcome.”

Still no time or date--an advertisement then, for some self-help business in Leeds. Jon noted that down and, after a short pause, emphasized “Year of the Cat” in his notes for dating the document. That seemed important for archival work. It clearly wasn’t very old--the paper was still unblemished and bright, if a little wrinkled--but getting the exact year would be good regardless. He let out a huff through his nose. All of this for a silly pamphlet--but he was in an important position now, and had to do his due diligence.

With that, he flipped over the pamphlet, prepared to examine the back for any names or other identifying information. The backs of the pages were largely more cat facts: how well they could hear, what purring signifies, and so on and so forth. Nothing worth writing down, and nothing new to him, though Jon did feel a small pang of longing for the Admiral as he finished his scan of the pamphlet. “Cat tongues are spined for grooming and rending flesh from bone!”, a small drawing of a cat with its tongue stuck out, and then, on the final section of the pamphlet, what would be the very back folded up: “From the library of--”

Jon stumbled over his chair in his haste to stand up, and it fell to the floor with a loud thud on the thin, shitty carpet. He should--or--he couldn’t resist leaning in, just a little, to confirm, and there were the words “Jurgen Leitner” as he’d feared, but. But that wasn’t a reason to be so scared, nevermind the pounding of his heart in his ears. He forced his shoulders down and took a deep, shaky breath, edging carefully back towards the desk. It didn’t mean anything--nothing had happened, he felt fine, he hadn’t felt like he _couldn’t_ stop reading just...it was his job, to read and to catalogue these things, and any _compulsion_ he felt was just doing his job and he felt fine anyway. There was nothing in the room with him, no horrific injury to his person, no sudden forbidden knowledge--just a pamphlet of cat facts sitting crooked on his desk. 

“--on? I’m going to--I’m going to come in, if you don’t mind, I’m sorry.” Someone was calling through the door--Martin, the new hire, placed closest to his office for all of the supervision he apparently needed. Jon unclenched his fists, slowly unlocking the fingers one by one. He couldn’t look so rattled; he was in _charge,_ and Martin had no right to enter his office like this uninvited, when he was already stressed and wired.

The door swung open slowly, and for some reason unknown to him Jon slammed the pamphlet into the drawer of his desk just as Martin’s head crept around the door frame. The drawer slid shut with a thud and Martin’s eyes widened seeing him there, his mouth opening and closing around a stutter before managing to get any words out. “Oh! I’m--sorry, I just heard a crash, and I’d worried something had happened--you weren’t responding--but I can--”

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon snapped, pushing his chair up against the desk. A split-second decision, and he reached for his coat as well. “It was just a--” and lord, it was all he could think about right now, “--spider. I’ve taken care of it. You should be more concerned with yourself, and your work.” A flinch. “I’m--I’m leaving early.” He slipped his arms into the sleeves, just slightly left of his body, before slinging his bag over his shoulder. Martin was still hovering in the doorway, shrinking in on himself, and Jon just needed to--he rounded his desk and wrenched open the door, doing his best to seem unhurried. “I will be back first thing in the morning. Please finish your assignment for the day.” Lord, and he didn’t even know _what_ assignment. But he was past Martin now and halfway to the door to the archives. With Tim and Sasha out on research, no one could get between him and freedom. But as he reached the door, Jon finally had the presence of mind to make some attempt at being normal. “Goodbye,” he said sternly, nodding once, before slipping out and up the stairs. 

He took two at a time and barely remembered the trip back to his apartment, but soon enough he was staring at the ceiling in his bed, tie rumpled around his neck, and desperately convincing himself that the name Jurgen Leitner didn’t mean anything at all.


	2. Denial is not a river in Egypt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I physically could not hold myself back from posting any longer. Don't worry there will be cat ear acknowledgement in chapter 3. Idk what to tell you Jon spent a whole season like this. I'm being merciful. Anyway the next chap should be up in another 3ish days..? Also thank you to realityphobia ([realityphobia.tumblr.com](https://realityphobia.tumblr.com/post/639426475797495808/pictured-a-man-desperately-hiding-his-ongoing)) for the awesome chapter art it is EXACTLY as i imagined it, I love it

A loud buzzing brought Jon into the waking world--reluctantly, in all that Jon felt like complete shit, blindly grabbing for his glasses on the dresser before realizing they were lying, still fully unfolded, on his pillow. His mouth tasted like death, his eyes were still crusted from sleep, and his chin was sticky with drool but he slipped the glasses on and squinted at the phone, the screen blurry with notifications. Not so blurry though that he couldn't make out--

"10:30?" The exclamation slipped from his mouth as he shot upright in bed, all sleepiness forgotten in the sudden jolt of adrenaline that rushed through his veins. 10:30, more than three hours late and--he brought his phone up again, legs still tangled in a pair of fresh trousers--his coworkers were spamming his phone nonstop.

**The Archives**

Jon S. (you), Tim S., Sasha J., Martin B.

**#random**

\--------------------{Today}-----------------------

**Tim S.** Today at 10:00 A.M  
**@Jon S.** bossman are you awake yet?

**Tim S.** 20 minutes ago  
**@Jon S. @Jon S. @Jon S.**

**Tim S.** 20 minutes ago  
Goddamn

**Tim S.** 20 minutes ago  
I didn’t even know **@Jon S.** COULD sleep we really do learn something new every day

**Sasha J.** 12 minutes ago  
Tim, let him rest. he obviously needs it. 

**Sasha J.** 11 minutes ago  
**@Jon S.** also should not even _think_ of coming into work today when he does wake up. think of our health, our fragile constitutions. and I am not calling a cab for his feverish ass _again._

**Tim S.** 11 minutes ago  
!! hypocrite 

**Martin B.** 5 minutes ago  
I hope you feel better soon, Jon.   
**@Tim S.** Would you mind helping me find something from Document Storage? I’m not really used to the system yet. Only if you’re not busy, of course.

**Tim S.** 5 minutes ago  
Lmao what system but yeah i’ll see what i can do gimme a mo

Jon sighed, massaging his forehead. He felt...terrible, honestly. But that had never stopped him from going to work, and he didn’t even have a fever. Just tired with a migraine. Nothing he hadn’t worked through before. And being sick was...a better alternative. One instance in which Martin had shown some tact, at least. 

With one hand buttoning up his shirt, he slowly typed out a reply. 

**Jon S.** 1 minute ago  
I'm feeling better now, and will be coming in shortly. Apologies for the delay.

**Tim S.** 1 minute ago  
he lives!!!

**Martin B.** <1 minute ago  
I'm glad you're feeling better, Jon!

**Sasha J.** <1 minute ago  
**@Martin B.** Rule one of working with jon, do not trust a word out of his mouth when he's sick. he is a filthy, filthy liar. **@Jon S.** stay home

Jon huffed, the sides of his head twinging.

**Jon S.** <1 minute ago  
I will be in shortly.

With that, he shoved his phone in his pocket and shuffled to the bathroom to wipe some of the dead animal taste from his mouth. But as he raised the toothbrush to his teeth and glanced into the mirror, he saw. Something. Twitching on top of his head, fluffy and pointed like cat…?

Jon determinedly kept his hands at his sides, spat his toothpaste in the sink, shrugged on a coat, shoved on a hat, and exited out the door in 30 seconds flat.

* * *

So, and Jon could admit this to himself, this was a mistake. 

Every clunk of the train and word spoken between passengers was like a jackhammer next to his _absolutely single set of very human ears_ , and what before was a fairly mild migraine had long progressed into full coverage throbbing. It was just...loud. Far louder than usual.

Jon adjusted the hat on his head for no particular reason.

But he'd already come this far, and he couldn't go back on what he'd told his staff. He was their _boss_ now, and had to show some kind of decorum, and so when the intercom announced his stop he shuffled out the tube and into the Magnus Institute, nodding at Rosie (who gave him a wry, amused stare, which he steadfastly ignored even as he tugged his hat lower) as he made his way to the Archives stairs. 

Unfortunately, as he eased the door open, he was met with even more _noise_.

“The criminal has arrived!” crowed Tim, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed. His legs somehow took up the entire walkway from the door to his office, and he was grinning like a cat that--like a--he was grinning smugly. Jon took a moment to try to step over him but stopped when Tim raised his eyebrows, also smugly. “Sasha’s going to tear you a new one,” his eyes flicked over Jon, and Jon had to stop himself from adjusting his hat again, “but you really do look horrid. Are you that cold? You really should go home, but,” Tim threw his hands in the air, finally removing his legs from the walkway, “you’re the boss here, not me.”

“I have low blood pressure,” Jon said measuredly, pointedly not moving to go towards his office. He could have gone around Tim at any time, he just did not want to. “And I feel fine. If you’ll excuse me.” Martin must have been in the stacks, and Sasha was out on research or a break, so Jon was able to slip inside his office with no greater incident. He heaved out a great sigh of relief, setting his bag on the floor, but leaving his coat (and hat) on. It just felt...safer right now. Removing the coat would make the hat much more obvious--not that he couldn’t take the hat off at any time, but. A hat without a coat was strange. So the coat stayed on. The Archives ran cold, anyway.

He was just starting to break into the first folder on the stack of his desk (and very determinedly ignoring his top right desk drawer), when Martin and Sasha returned to the Archives. Evident by the fact that he could hear every. Word. Of their conversation. Usually it was somewhat distorted--the door was real wood, after all--but today everything was so _sensitive_ that he felt like he was in the room with them. He pointedly ignored the sensation of his hat shifting on his head through absolutely no cause of his own.

“You will never guess who came in!” Tim said, sounding extremely sarcastic. There was some shuffling of bags being placed and coats being removed. 

“Can’t say I didn’t expect it,” Sasha sighed. Her voice grew progressively closer. “We need some kind of...baby gate. He’s tiny, it’d work.” 

Jon choked, a strange feeling emanating from the sides of his head. Tim and, presumably, Martin snorted, though one was much less restrained than the other. It wasn’t hard to guess who. “Nah, he’d just get Rosie to lift him in,” Tim said. There was a ‘smacking’ sound, flesh against flesh. “Wait, I’ve got it. We can just haul him back home. I mean, c’mon, Martin at least--you could carry him for blocks no problem.”

Nervous laughter. “I mean...I don’t--I wouldn’t say _that_ , um…” Jon desperately wanted to end this conversation, but exiting the office would just invite _more_ questions. Really, he was determined to hunker down behind his desk all day, and get some work done to distract himself. Which he would get to as soon as this pointless conversation was over. He doubted they would actually carry him out of the Archives, and if they did, he would...fire them. Or something. 

“Really though,” Tim started again. “He looks like shit. Still in his winter wear and everything. If the great Sasha James can pull a miracle and make him go home...I mean, if nothing else, I don’t want what he’s got.”

“I actually…” Sasha trailed off, and there was the rustling of paper before Tim and Martin made shocked noises. “Accessed these right before I left. I mean, I’ve _never_ seen him leave early, not even back in Research. So... a reverse-kidnapping could be a go,” Sasha laughed, “but in all seriousness,” (“I was serious,” Tim said, jokingly(?)), “I was thinking we could at least drop something off for him. He doesn’t really...well.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Martin said, tentatively--and eagerly, oddly enough. “Do you think he would--well, I could help, if you’d like.” Jon grimaced. His cheeks were already as heated as they could get at this turn in the conversation, but Martin _specifically_ pitching in to some act of misguided altruism made him...uncomfortable, considering their entire work relationship so far. But all of this was uncomfortable, really, and most of all unnecessary. He stood up from his desk, intent on showing them that he was truly fine and did not need any visits to his dubiously-attained address, but with the movement, his hat floated to the floor, catching on... _something_ on the way down. And Jon. Froze. Because he could _also_ hear Sasha taking the final few steps towards his door, but he could only hear that because his--of the strange twinging going into overdrive on his scalp, and--

And then he immediately dove for the hat, but his hand only reached the empty floor, and so he crossed his arms over his head as Sasha opened the door, his elbows banging on the carpet. Jon wheezed as the breath flew out of him.

_(Art by[realityphobia.tumblr.com](https://realityphobia.tumblr.com/post/639426475797495808/pictured-a-man-desperately-hiding-his-ongoing))_

“I--Jon?” Sasha exclaimed, eyes wide. Jon leveraged himself up to his knees as quickly as possible, keeping an elbow firmly over the top of his head and firmly ignoring any sensation reaching said elbow.

“I dropped something,” he said, staring just slightly to the left of Sasha’s eyes. This did not seem to reassure her any.

“I--that’s--” she spluttered, hands held awkwardly at her sides before reaching up to drag down her face. “Okay, no. We’re-- _please_ just go home, Jon. _Look_ at you!”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he snapped, getting to his feet. “I just dropped--my hat.” He crammed it sloppily on his head, finally dropping his arm to his side.

“Yes, your hat, which you were wearing along with your coat, breathing like you have a kazoo in your throat! Flat on the _floor_ !” Sasha groaned, tugging at her braided hair. “And you’ve got at least five layers of eye bags. _Please_ , Jon. If you’re collapsing at the beginning of the work day--you need to take care of yourself! You’re not a toddler!”

“Exactly,” Jon snapped, lips curling. His fingers dug into the palm of his hand, and his back straightened to make the most of what height he had. “I’m not a toddler. I can make my own decisions--you can’t _force_ me out, and must I remind you who is _Head_ Archivist?” He regretted it almost as soon as he said it, but Sasha stepped towards him and suddenly he was--hissing at her, teeth bared. Exhaling loudly through his teeth. Hissing. Exhaling--

Both of them stopped. The whir of the air conditioning was deafening. Bafflement and irritation blended into an odd, completely indescribable nothing of emotion. This was, most probably, the longest moment of Jon’s life. And then, completely silent, expression simultaneously irritated, baffled, and completely blank, Sasha turned on her heel and exited the office, closing the door behind her with a click.

He could hear some voices--Martin and Tim’s, he noted distantly--beyond the door, but mostly he could just hear his thoughts running _why did I do that, what was that_ in an endless, painful loop. Jon was just--frozen. His cheeks couldn’t decide whether they should blush or go completely ashen. Any anger he held had rushed out to be replaced with sheer, unmitigated mortification. He had just-- _hissed._ At _Sasha_. _Hissed._ _Why did he do that._

Jon didn’t know how long he stood there, eyes staring in blank panic. But at some point, he registered the door opening again, and it was like someone had pressed the play button on his currently incredibly terrible life. His head twinged a bit again. More than ever, he was not going to confront this.

“So, Sasha just--left? Didn’t say a word, but I figured you would be staying in? So I thought I may as well, well, there’s this thermos I found in the kitchen, and I thought you’d like something for here or--to go, if you decided to,” Martin was rambling, staring down on his feet like he thought he would trip as he walked into the room. “It’s just Chamomile, with some peppermint--good for colds, you know. And--” And then Martin looked up, and Jon with great regret and great panic realized that his hat had fluttered to the floor once again with Martin’s entry. And unfortunately, Martin’s eyes locked onto--the space above his head immediately.

He was going to staple that goddamn hat to his scalp.


	3. Spoiler alert: it was cat ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i PROMISE there’s catboy shenanigans, they are coming. Just, uh. Not yet. But his ears are like a British Angora’s (more commonly known today as the Oriental Longhair, unfortunately), which I thought fit Jon well. Also catch me trying to space out the em-dashes with some ellipses and semicolons. Listen human thought is fragmented im doing my best
> 
> Next chap might take a bit longer--busy last couple of days, so wasn't able to get ahead, and migraine today. I'm aiming for a week. Thank you everyone for the comments and support, by the way. It's been huge in making me feel like it's worth writing something so silly. :) Thank you!!

“Are those. Um,” Martin stammered, eyes locked just over the crown of Jon’s head. “Uh.” He flexed his fingers around the thermos like a stress ball. “Cat ears?” he finished with a squeak.

“...No,” Jon said. His head twinged again, but he made no move towards his cabbie hat. Maybe if he stayed still enough, Martin would simply turn around and leave.

“They. Just moved?” Martin kicked the door shut behind him for no discernable reason. “Are they. Real?” he asked, voice breathy and high. 

“...No?” Jon said. His heart was pounding. 

Martin redirected his gaze to the hat on the floor. “You...wore a hat? To cover...your cat ears? But,” and finally he looked Jon in the face, “but I’ve seen you without a hat before?”

“Well,” Jon stammered, face rapidly heating up. He scowled. “Well they’re _new_ , Martin, _obviously_!” He was shouting by the end, but Martin seemed to hardly notice, eyes on the...ears again. 

“Um,” Martin said again, eloquently, tentatively stepping forwards. He gave Jon a wide berth. “How, though?”

Jon thought of Leitners, and having to _explain_ Leitners. “It. It’s none of your concern,” he said, snatching his hat from off the floor. “I believe I may still be ill and will be taking the rest of the day off,” he said stiffly, holding his back as straight as possible. He placed the hat carefully back onto his head, tucking the ears under the brim. He could almost pretend it was a normal work day, like this. Aside from...literally everything.

Martin was silent for a moment, still blocking the doorway even a few steps out from it. “That’s...good,” he said slowly, drawing out the last syllable. “Don’t you...I do think that this might be something that you could--that might benefit from some. Assistance?”

Jon pointedly ignored him, walking over to his desk. So many folders, but no empty ones in sight. Martin was still droning on in the background, (“I mean, this isn’t... _normal_ , and you’re not the type to pull pranks I mean, I assume, so it’s…”), and so with an irritated grunt he snatched the topmost folder off of his “to record” pile and dumped the inner documents out of it. (“And my boss has _cat ears_ , so I do feel that…”) He started opening the desk drawers at random, of which there were many. It was some antique, probably the same that Gertrude’s predecessor had used and--there. He stared down at the pamphlet for a moment before quickly swiping _Felidae_ out and shoving it into the empty folder, staring at a corner of his desk until it was safely out of sight. 

Martin’s voice filtered back in. “So I don’t think this is the kind of thing you--that should be dealt with alone. The more people working on this, the more likely we’ll reverse it, right? If it can be reversed, that is. I--obviously that would be ideal.” Jon shoved the folder into his bag (alongside a few of the statements scattered around his desk) and slung it over his shoulder. Martin just kept going. “It might be good to take it easy today, anyway, are you sure--it would be best--it might be good not to take work home with you, and--”

“Martin,” Jon interrupted, standing squarely in front of him. “I’m leaving.”

Martin wilted, stepping to the side. “Oh, right, um. Oh, wait--” Jon was already pushing past his outstretched hand, and opened the door. Not to the sight of an empty Archives, unfortunately, but to the sight of a confused Tim, who leaped away from the door before it could hit him. 

“Oh, right, well,” Tim said, clearly caught off-guard. He cleared his throat. “Hey, so, Sasha’s just staring at the break room fridge, and I just wanted to ask, like, what’s up? Did you finally break her, bossman? You heading home, or hunkering down in your bunker here?” He peered around Jon for a moment. “Oh, hey Martin.” (“Hello, Tim.”)

Jon stared at Tim for a moment. Right. Tim. And Sasha. He placed a cautionary hand over top of his hat. “Actually,” he started, before closing his mouth with a click. He glanced at Martin. And then he grabbed Martin’s forearm, pulling him closer. “Actually, Martin was just walking me out.” For whatever reason, Tim grinned at that, raising his palms in front of him in a placating gesture.

“Oh hoh hoh! Don’t let me interrupt,” he said with a wink, backing away. Martin squeaked, but Jon paid it no mind, tugging him past Tim with a sigh. The man was just so high energy. 

Soon enough, they’d made it out onto the front steps of the institute. Martin had been completely silent the whole time, but aside from an odd look from Rosie--Jon had left early twice in the same number of days, after all--there’d been no further incidents. No Sasha, thank god. If he never saw her again it would be too soon.

“Right,” Jon said, turning around to face Martin. His coworker’s face was red from the cold already. “Do not tell Tim or Sasha. Or anyone.”

Martin’s nose scrunched up. “But--are you sure, because--”

Jon held up a hand, trying to look as stern as possible despite needing to tilt his head up to meet Martin’s eyes. “ _No one._ If you so much as breathe a word, I will…” Jon trailed off uncertainty. He didn’t want to pull rank; as hard as he was working to fill the position, he had no right to lord it over Sasha’s head earlier today, and as incompetent as Martin was at his position, Jon similarly just...threatening to fire him felt wrong. “There will be consequences,” he finished. What they were, he didn’t know. “I will handle this myself, and the...situation will be resolved soon.” Power talk. He had spoken it into existence. His fingers tightened on his bag’s handle, suddenly very aware of the pamphlet so flimsily protected inside.

“...Right,” Martin said, looking suddenly very pale. And a little irritated too, the edges of his mouth taut and his brow furrowed. 

Jon was, frankly, sick and tired of everyone assuming he couldn’t take care of himself. “Just go back to work, Martin. Lord knows you need the time,” he snapped. Then, after a hefty sigh, “I’ll...tell the others to contact me if they finish their assignments, and I will message them new ones. I’ll be in as usual tomorrow.”

Martin didn’t say anything in reply, just nodding, still looking vaguely upset. And for a man with his level of education, he should _really_ be of much more help, but he’s by far the slowest at follow-up. Jon couldn't find it in him to feel bad for the jab. So, after a moment, he turned to leave, raising a hand to hold the hat to his head again. 

Before he could take more than a few steps, though, Martin called out, “Wait.” Jon turned and...he couldn’t quite make out the expression on Martin’s face, but he was holding out the thermos from earlier. “Tea,” he said, opening and closing his mouth a few times before giving up on saying anything more. And for whatever reason, Jon took it silently with a nod, then turned again to walk the few blocks to the station. 

The thermos felt warm in his hands.

* * *

Shockingly, Jon made it to his flat with little incident, and with a sigh of relief finally dropped his arm to his side. It would be sore in the morning. After locking the door behind him, he hovered in the doorway for a moment, taking time in shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the hanger.. In the light of day, the nooks and crannies of his kitchenette looked a little dingier, the couch more worn, and the wood of the coffee table warped from an endless parade of cups of tea, but it was his. Without the sheer exhaustion from a late night at the Archives, he could truly appreciate the peace of his flat. Just him and his books. 

He shook his head, toeing off his shoes and heading for his little living room. That wasn’t quite accurate. Even here, he felt the pressure to perform. But at least there was no Martin, or Sasha, or Tim, to fuss over him like a child or tease him relentlessly. He set the thermos on the coffee table before sinking into the couch cushions. And without them, he thought, pulling the various papers and folders out of his satchel, he could properly get to work.

But rather than the array of papers in front of him, his eyes were drawn to a blank folder to his right. Somehow he knew that was where the Pamphlet was stored. It was good that he’d taken it from his office; no one would accidentally read it. But now that he had it, he...didn’t know what to do with it. Opening it could make things even worse. But, Jon realized, perking up a bit, he’d taken notes as he was reading. So he wouldn’t have to look at the Pamphlet again at all.

His relief was short-lived, however. Jon rummaged through his bag and shuffled the papers on the coffee table, but his notes were nowhere to be found. Dammit. He let out a hiss. He must’ve left the notepad on his desk. He buried his head in his hands with a groan. Going back to the Archives wasn’t an option; it would be _highly_ suspicious to walk back in and grab something from his desk. The tube fare wasn’t that cheap. And speaking of the tube, every trip on it raised the chances of an incident like with Martin. But he also couldn’t leave it there where anyone could see--wait. Martin. Jon whipped out his phone. 

**The Archives**

Jon S. (you), Tim S., Sasha J., Martin B.

**Martin**

\----------------------------------{Today}------------------------------------

**Jon S.** Today at 11:58 A.M.  
I need you to grab the black leather notepad from my desk. It should be in the top right corner, facing the door.

**Martin B.** <2 minutes ago.  
 ~~Why?~~  
Alright. Is this it? (edited)

Jon glanced over the image he’d sent.

**Jon S.** <2 minute ago  
Yes. Keep it in your bag or on your person, and I will retrieve it from you tomorrow. Do not show it to anyone. It contains private information.

**Jon S.** <1 minute ago  
Thank you.

Jon put down his phone, heaving a sigh. Well, that was squared away. His shoulders slowly inched down from his ears. That had given him a minor heart attack (and an adrenaline rush that still tingled his bones), but Martin--he already _knew_. So even if he did look inside, there would be no reason for him to go searching. Jon was safe for now. 

He stretched his arms over his head, holding them there until his shoulder popped. Alright. Absently, he grabbed the thermos and sank back into the cushions. He took a sip. It was still warm, flowery with a bit of peppermint. Jon could practically feel his pulse slowing down. He closed his eyes for a moment, tipping more of the tea into his mouth. Martin was not very good at his job, but, well. He could admit that the tea was quite good. And warm. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until now.

Jon continued to sip at the tea for a while, humming in satisfaction. The warmth radiated from his chest, and he could feel himself sinking further into the cushions. Really, he was still very tired--more so than usual, especially on a day with no statements. He could feel his eyes slipping shut, a soothing rumble joining the warmth in his chest, like a car idling just outside his window. Only--it wasn’t from outside, was it?

His humming stopped, and so did the vibration in his chest. Jon stared at the ceiling, eyeing a water stain. He hummed again. Nothing. A deep breath, and he sat up from his relaxed sprawl, hands in tight fists atop his knees. He hummed again, but--slightly deeper. Not in pitch but in sensation, like grabbing for something in the dark and just barely brushing against it. The rumble started again, and Jon let out a choked sob, digging his palms into his eye sockets. 

He was purring.

This time, the rumbling didn’t let up. It only grew stronger, and despite himself, Jon felt himself calming slightly. It _was_ soothing but it was...wrong. Undeniably wrong and not his own, despite coming from his body. He moreso felt himself standing up than making a conscious decision to do so, and soon his body was walking to the bathroom. The hat had fallen off on the couch ages ago, so as he approached the mirror there was nothing hiding the--cat ears atop his head, pinned back and nearly invisible among his hair if not for the ends poking out. 

It was silly, really. Stupid. Cat ears, purring, _hissing_ . They weren’t scary. They weren’t a spider, come to eat its guests at the door. But they weren’t _his_. 

The ears were a dark brown; black, in the right light. They perked up as he examined them, and they were large; it was a wonder his hat hadn’t fallen off on his ride to work today, though they did lay surprisingly flat. Far wider and rounder at the tips than the Admiral’s were. And wasn’t that funny, comparing himself so literally to his cat?

The purring started up again, and Jon coughed deep in his chest to get it to stop. 

They were lightly furred, unlike the Admiral’s fluffy features. Two tufts just behind them that stuck out, and some strands from the inside ridge the same shade of gray as the streaks in his hair. And, speaking of... _his_ ears were still there, right under the thickest clump of gray at his temples. His real ears. Something in him eased out at that; this was just an addition. He could cut them off and be back to normal with some sick leave, but. A thought struck him. Jon did his best to squash the cat ears back (they were soft) with one hand, the other coming up to his right ear to snap--but he couldn’t bring himself to. He dropped his hands down to his sides before any sound could be made. He was such a coward.

He should...write this down. Record it. The information could be useful after all. But he didn’t have his notepad. So...later. Tomorrow. He’d take tonight to reset, and tomorrow he would research with all of the information he had available to him. It was what he did best. And he would reverse this, one way or another. 

With that, Jon ambled back to his satchel, pulling out the statements he’d nabbed, and went to work on them from his couch, thermos sitting cold on the coffee table in front of him. Every single statement recorded to his laptop, but fatigue pulled heavy at his eyes nonetheless. 

Tomorrow. He was...research was what he did best. It would have to be enough.


	4. The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I might need to change my summary to "oddly serious take on catboy Jon where he just feels bad all the time", especially with what happens next chapter...whoops. Also! Twice the wait, but twice the length? This chapter fought me a bit, since it's a pretty transitional one, but it also sets up some important stuff. Pls enjoy more stupid catboy Jon, and feel free to comment if you are so inclined!

Jon was  _ starving _ . 

He wasn’t quite sure what time it was--before 9:00, surely, as he couldn’t hear any chatter outside his office. But he was sure it had been a while since he’d left his flat, since his pile of discarded statements had reached his waist. That, or he’d just been especially productive today. He certainly had the motivation.

But, regardless, Jon was about ready to chew his own foot off. Which was unfortunate, as he hadn’t brought any lunch, as usual. A decent breakfast was typically enough to keep him going until the late evening, but--had he eaten breakfast? Or dinner, even? He squinted in thought, staring blankly down at the papers surrounding him on the floor. He’d had...a granola bar, maybe? And for dinner, a couple of protein bars? 

...It was probably fine. After all, he had research to do. Research that was, coincidentally, going absolutely  _ nowhere.  _ The only vaguely relevant statements to his situation--of which there were  _ three _ \--all revolved around one Jared Hopworth, and even those were a stretch, with only one Leitner mention between the three of them. Sure, they all contained some distortion of the body, but meat holes? Bones sliding out of people’s arms? It was ludicrous. And the extra ribs and limbs Hopworth purportedly had were nothing like Jon’s...affliction. 

He huffed, and the ears under his hat twitched. ”Ludicrous,” he muttered to himself, eyeing the papers in his hand. After a moment, he stood up with a grunt, knocking a few of the floor-statements aside in a paper avalanche. His back cracked loudly with the motion, the base of his spine pulsing with pain. Ugh. He wasn’t even thirty; wasn’t he supposed to be in the best condition of his life? With some stretching and another loud  _ pop,  _ the pain went away. Small blessings--he hadn’t brought any paracetamol today.

Jon stepped out of his paper prison to carefully set the Hopworth statements on his desk for further research and recording, though the thought of it was draining. The rest were...hm. Jon shoved them all into a slightly more orderly pile next to one of the many bookshelves lining the walls of the room. No need to refile them if they would be reorganized soon, anyway. Besides, from what he’d skimmed, they were even more nonsensical than the Hopworth statements.

Now, then. Jon eyed the next few shelves. Should he keep going with this bookshelf, or try another one in the room? Perhaps wander to Document Storage? Heaven knows Gertrude’s organization was nonexistent, so did it really matter? He’d just decided to try out a shelf in Document Storage when--

_ Knock knock.  _ It burst through the silence in his office, reverberated in his skull, so loud it felt like his skull was ringing, and at the bottom of the door, he could almost see black, thin, sharp hairs--

\--he startled. Badly. He whirled to face the door, heart pounding, and felt his lips pull back to bare his teeth, a loud hiss escaping him. 

“Uh. Jon? You in?” Martin.

Jon’s heart settled somewhat, but his muscles stayed tense. He breathed out deeply through his nose, willing his hands to unclench.  _ Normally _ , he could handle Martin’s incessant knocking. Unfortunately, this was not  _ normally _ , but lord did he wish Martin would just follow Sasha and Tim’s goddamn cue for once. 

“Yes,” he said belatedly.

“Can I come in? I’ve got the, uh--”

“Fine,” Jon interrupted. There was an awkward moment where he could  _ hear  _ Martin shuffling just beyond the door, but eventually it creaked open to reveal the idiot himself, his backpack slung over a shoulder. 

Martin's eyes flicked to the mess in the corner of the room, closing the door behind him. “Oh. How long have you been in?” Something in his tone sounded disapproving, and Jon raised his hackles. Metaphorically. 

“Long enough,” Jon said, narrowing his eyes. “Do you have it?” 

Martin stifled a laugh, pulling the notepad out of the front pocket of his backpack. “Yeah, um. I’m--”

“What’s so funny about it?” Jon scowled, snatching the notepad from Martin’s fingers. He quickly skimmed to the most recent written pages, and saw his notes were all still in place, including the loose ripped-off pieces of paper he occasionally wedged in there.

“Nothing!” Martin said quickly, though it sounded petulant. “It just sounded like--well, some shady business deal, or--nevermind.” Jon looked up, examination complete, to see him frowning, a crease to his brow. “I’m guessing--have you managed to solve your...problem? Well, the hat, but. It’s. On?”

Jon turned on his heel to deposit the notebook in its usual drawer of his desk before he snapped again. He  _ knew _ Martin didn’t deserve to be shouted at for doing as he was told, but every nerve he had was on edge and Martin always took far too long to get to the point. The drawer closed a little harder than he’d meant it to, and Jon took a deep breath before turning around again. “No,” he said. Then, after another breath, “thank you for bringing my notepad.” 

Martin nodded, but still lingered in the doorway. Jon sighed heavily. The adrenaline had worked its way through his limbs, leaving them feeling heavy. “It’s a headband,” he grumbled, quickly lifting his hat. A plastic one with sharp teeth that were giving him a headache, and that he was incredibly displeased could be felt through the ears it squished against his head. It was...violating, at the very least, to feel things through them. 

“Clever!” Martin said, leaning in a bit to look. Jon hated how much any bit of praise warmed his chest, and resolutely increased his scowl to compensate. “Although...it looks a bit painful. Will this...hurt them…?”

“They’re not mine,” Jon said, shoving the hat back on. He leaned against his desk, fidgeting with one of the rubber bands that seemed to appear out of thin air, sometimes. “I don’t care what happens to them. And it’s better than anyone seeing them, regardless.”

Martin pressed his lips together tightly. After a moment of seeming debate, his face hardened. “I do think we should let Tim and Sasha know.” Jon scoffed, but Martin pressed forward. “They can  _ help _ , and you could keep the--the ears out so long as you’re in the Archives.”

“No,” Jon said firmly, straightening up. “There is no “ _ we”  _ here. I didn’t even want  _ you  _ to know. The fewer the better.”

“...Alright.” Martin looked displeased, but so long as he went along with it, Jon didn’t really care about his feelings. “It’s your decision.”

“It is.” 

“Right.” Martin shuffled in place. “I’ll...get to it, then.” He turned and stepped out of the office, but before closing the door, he said, “And Tim and Sasha won’t be in for another 30. Thought I’d get here early. Just--in case you didn’t know.” The door shut with a soft click. 

Jon sighed, but set an alarm on his phone before taking his headband off. He hated how they sprang back into place, but it did feel...better. One less ache.

* * *

“Statement ends.” Jon sagged in his chair, setting Case#9991006 to the side.  _ The Boneturner’s Tale _ ...there were hardly any similarities. For one, it seemed that the book was  _ usable _ in some way, or conferred some abilities on the reader. Jon certainly hadn’t actively attempted to attain cat ears. Although the seeming “one and done” nature of the thing put him at some ease. There’d been no further changes beyond the ears so far, just as  _ this _ particular Leitner seemed content to...turn your bone? One by one at the user’s liking...So long as Hopworth’s distortion was willing, that is. Jon tapped a pen on his notebook, writing down a note to contact Jared Hopworth’s mother. Hopefully the other statements, read more closely, would have more information on contacting Hopworth himself. 

After all, if his transformation had been unwilling, that would bode poorly for Jon. If it had been creeping and gradual, changing him piece by piece until he was scarcely recognizable--Jon wasn’t going to think about this. Today, he would choose willful ignorance. 

Anyway. He  _ did _ have one other statement he’d previously recorded, the... _ Ex Altiora  _ one. Gerard Keay. He could scarcely forget the statement if he tried; it was one of those that seemed to creep into him and make themselves home in his chest. But in it, burning the book had stopped its effects. Jon jotted that down as well, before adding a note:  _ But may not reverse the effects _ ? And what if burning completely precluded the possibility of reversal? Oh, he could cut off the ears, sure--but there would be scars, and his...voice. The sounds he could make now,  _ those  _ couldn’t just be cut out. They were inside him, hidden, but the permanence of it all...No. He glanced over at his bag, sat at the foot of his desk innocuously. The protective folder was peeking out of a corner. No, the pamphlet would stay for now. He couldn’t take that risk. 

He let out a deep breath, his hand halfway to his head before he had the presence of mind to drop it. Couldn’t even run a hand through his hair. One of these days--at some point  _ in the near future _ , he was going to knock the hat off in some ill-considered stress response, and then where would he be?

_ Knock knock. _

Not at the Magnus Institute with Martin goddamn Blackwood, that was for sure. “Come in,” Jon said testily. He closed his notebook and set it in his bag just as Martin entered, a mug in his hands and a folder in the other. And this was--he’d only seen Martin today, hadn’t he? He could hear Tim and Sasha’s chatter, but they must till be occupied with yesterday’s assignments...

“Thought you might like some tea? And I finished this one, uh, Case#015...2809?” He set them down on opposite corners of the desk--the tea in its usual position on top of a deep water mark, no doubt adding to it as they spoke. Better the desk than the papers. But the  _ tea _ \--Jon was used to hunger, and used to ignoring it in his researching sprees, but the smell of it had reminded his stomach that food did, in fact, exist, and he felt it clawing at him full-force once more. All irritation forgotten, he reached for the tea, and took a deep draw of it. It was probably just how hungry he was, but it was also so  _ warm  _ in the chill of his office, and it was. Quite good. 

“...Thank you, Martin,” Jon said, setting the tea back down. His voice vibrated oddly though, gravely with exhaustion. And the warmth in his chest spread and settled into his ribs alongside a soothing rumble, which. 

Wait. Not exhaustion-- _ purring. _

“What is…” Martin gasped softly. “Oh! Oh.” Jon felt a flush settle on his cheeks just as it did on Martin’s and frantically beat at his chest. 

“It’s--it’s nothing. Stop,” Jon said between hits. Ow. His sternum was smarting, but the purring had stopped. Thank god. “It’s nothing.” He repeated, cheeks still burning. At least Martin’s were too, though what  _ he _ had to be embarrassed about in this situation, Jon had no clue. Martin was smiling a bit too. Prick. 

Jon rubbed at his chest a bit as the silence stretched. 

“...Right,” Martin said absently, stil red. “So, um, is that. New?”

“No,” Jon said, not at all absently and very much mortified in the moment. “It just--it happens. From. Hot drinks. Any.” Which was not  _ untrue,  _ in that he had indeed purred each of the two times he’d had a tea. And also when he was having a stress breakdown actually, which oddly made him feel better about all of this.

Martin laughed, a high-pitched nervous one that Jon couldn’t really fault him for this time. “Okay!”

The silence stretched again, but behind Martin, Jon caught a glimpse of a (horribly out of dress code) Hawaiian shirt coming towards the door. He had never been so glad to see Tim. 

“Heey, Marto!” Tim said, leaning casually against the doorway. “And Bossman. We’re going out to lunch for those midweek blues. Within a  _ reasonable _ break time of course.” He winked exaggeratedly at Jon. Reflexively, Jon felt his lips turn down into a scowl, but that only brightened the twinkle in Tim’s eyes. “Just the Nando’s across the way. Care to join us?”

Jon opened his mouth to politely decline, but his stomach had other ideas, growling loud enough to fill up the room. He scowled deeper, cheeks flushing further, and Tim grinned like a shark.  _ Why was his body constantly betraying him, this wasn’t even a Leitner thing _ .

“ _ Someone’s  _ a hungry little man!”

“Tim--”

“How could we let our beloved, esteemed boss go starving like a Victorian street orphan? Why, we would hardly be model employees if we did so!” Tim crowed, hands on his hips. “Isn’t that right, Martin?”

Martin was stifling a laugh behind his hand. “I mean, it’s up to him--”

“Nonsense,” Sasha chimed in. Her head appeared over Tim’s shoulder. “I for one am not leaving until Jon gets some food in him. I heard that from down the hall. And--it’s on me. Consider it positive reinforcement for actually going home yesterday, if that sweetens the pot for you.” Regrettably, it did. Jon had actually never been  _ less  _ glad to see Tim or Sasha in his life, but he was starving, and honestly, fast food sounded amazing right now. 

“Fine,” he said stiffly, standing up, and--oh. He stumbled a bit. That felt odd. Like he’d stood up harder than usual. He slung his bag over his shoulder (couldn’t leave it alone, not here where he felt so  _ watched _ ) and pushed the issue out of his mind, trailing behind the others as they left the Archives. He must’ve wanted Nando’s more than he’d thought.

* * *

He’d wanted Nando’s _so much_ _more_ than he’d thought. Jon tore into the chicken, half of him wanting to discard his utensils to speed up the process, and the other half desperately holding onto any dignity he had. Distantly, he knew his assistants were staring, but eating had somehow only made him hungrier. 

“Holy shit,” Tim said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you eat this much in a year.”

“Two,” Sasha corrected, sipping at her lemonade beside him. Both her and Tims’ plates were clean aside from leftover sauce, which Jon would be tempted to lick off if he had any less self-restraint. His own plate, one of the largest meals they had (and most expensive, Jon thought guiltily--he would pay Sasha back later), was starting to look bare as well. Martin’s had some scraps still, right in front of him, so maybe--no. Jon shook his head, taking another bite. He really needed this. He really, really needed this. 

“Oh!” Martin said, loudly. Jon looked up. He looked weirdly nervous. “You can take the rest of mine if you want!” He pushed the plate towards him. Jon eyed it, conflicted, but a clearing of Martin’s throat brought his eyes back up. He was holding his hand kind of oddly, hanging off the collar of his shirt, a finger tapping his sternum-- _ oh _ . Shit. 

Jon cleared his throat loudly, trying to disrupt the purring as subtly as he could. That little jolt of adrenaline seemed to have done the trick, and the vibration in his chest he’d only vaguely registered died down. “Thank you, Martin,” he said. And even if it had just been a distraction...Jon cut off the untouched bits of meat on Martin’s plate, adding it to his own. 

“Where are you  _ putting  _ it all,” Tim said, seemingly half to himself. Jon scowled in response, grabbing the last few bites from his plate.

“I was hungry,” he said, defensively. “I didn’t eat much yesterday. Too--” full of existential dread? Busy disassociating? “--nauseous.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Sasha said, eyeing his hat. Jon ducked his head a bit, reflexively, as if that would hide it. But she said nothing about it. Instead, “It would be good for you to take some more breaks like this, you know. I’ve hardly ever seen you take lunch at the office.” She leaned her head against her arm, side-eyeing his plate with a smile. “And clearly, it’s not for lack of appetite.”

“...Perhaps,” Jon admitted. (“Perhaps,” Tim said mockingly, lilting the word absurdly. Jon ignored him, though Martin giggled a bit.) And he really  _ wasn’t _ usually very hungry, but right now, he very much was, even after at least two peoples’ worth of food. A bit tired, too, though whether it was the food or his late night, he couldn’t tell.

“Once a week, then? Good ol’ office bonding?” Jon nodded absently, still pondering his appetite. Wait, what had he just agreed to? “Right, then.” And then Sasha went to clap her hands together, but--

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Jon jumped at the sudden cold in his lap, knees hitting the underside of the table. He could feel the lemonade seeping through his trousers, sticky against his skin. “Oh, let me clean that up.” Sasha ushered him out of the booth, grabbing some napkins and dropping to the floor. It looked like the spill had missed his bag at least, but...Jon grimaced at how his trousers pulled against his legs. “There’s a bathroom in the back--you might be able to dry things up a bit, at least?” she smiled sheepishly, snatching some more napkins from the table above her. 

So, with a nod and a grimace, Jon went to the bathroom. It was single-occupancy, luckily, so he locked the door behind him and shimmied out of his trousers, which felt--a bit more difficult than it should have been, even with the lap of the trousers soaked. More painful, too; something in his lower back twinged, just like earlier in the day. Reaching a hand behind him, it felt, not swollen but. Hot. Hm. 

He ran some paper towels under the sink, wiping down some sticky residue from his legs. Which also felt. Odd. 

Jon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning, and dragged his fingers down his face. It was nothing. His legs felt odd because they were covered in  _ lemonade,  _ and the pain was from straining something this morning. “Stop being ridiculous,” he muttered to himself. So, eyes kept firmly forward, he dried and scrubbed his trousers until they were a little more bearable, pulled them back on (they  _ were  _ tight, weren’t they? Or just because they were wet?), and headed back to the table. Sasha was seated again, talking to Tim and Martin across from her, but stood when she saw him, holding his bag out for him to take.

Despite the spill, the trip back to the institute was...nice. With no gnawing hunger (though it was still, undeniably, there), everything firmly hidden away, he could focus on the conversation. He didn’t contribute much, worn out and unsure of their new dynamic as boss and employees, but he did feel his face pull into a smile or two.

Much of that lightheartedness left him when a woman came in with a statement about a lonely graveyard, but he slept that night. Not well, but he slept.


	5. Sick Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Jon does some research into Jared Hopworth and shares a few amicable conversations with Martin. For once in his life, he goes out to lunch with his coworkers and has a good time, despite being absolutely starving, a bit achy, and Sasha spilling a drink on him. The day ends with a statement from Naomi Herne.

It creeped up on him, as always.

First was the ache. Deep, deep in his bones and interwoven with the strands of muscle encasing them. The worst of it was his back and legs, throbbing with the beat of his heart.Then there was the cold--shivers wracking him on occasion, then somewhat frequently, then near-constantly. Sweat soaked his clothes and he felt disgusting. And lastly--the exhaustion. Most days he passed out on his desk, then dragged himself home and took a shower before getting back to work. Physically, it wasn’t the worst he’d ever been, and lined up with his usual sicknesses, but more...targeted. This wasn’t the ache of a fever, and he tried not to think about it.

And then there was...the notebook. Jon examined it again. He hadn’t written anything in it since his frenzied look into Jared Hopworth, too sidetracked by increasing pressure from Elias to digitize the Archives and the nightmares he’d had since that woman had come in with her statement. The bags under his eyes were growing steadily larger. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so dismissive of her--well. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now, was there?

But the notebook (sidetracked again--where was his mind? He felt like he was underwater). Something about it felt different. Somehow, he just _knew_ that someone else had gone through it, something deep in his gut informing him that the little book wasn’t just _his_ anymore. Someone else’s hands had touched it. Jon narrowed his eyes. He could be imagining it, but the pages did look creased, maybe, as if someone had hurried through them. Or did they? Had they always been like this?

Jon clutched at his temple, leaning further back into his chair. Lord, he couldn’t _think._ It hurt, head pounding to the beat of his heart, and the hat and headband were not _helping._ And he knew it was a bad decision as he made it, but Jon ripped the whole ensemble off. Immediately, he sighed, and felt some tension drain from his shoulders. Everything still hurt, but it was one less source of pressure. He would just listen, very carefully, for anyone coming by. He felt the ears on his head prick up at the thought, pointed at the door. Even now, he could hear pages being flipped and the occasional footstep outside. But the walls here had always been fairly thin, regardless.

Oh, but pages...the notebook. Yes. Someone had looked through it. And there wasn’t anything _truly_ incriminating in there, largely disconnected notes on statements and the Leitner itself, but. His hands shook just thinking about it. This whole _thing_ ; it felt incredibly personal. Private. Bad enough that Martin knew, but now Sasha, or Tim, or even some stranger coworker come down to clean or borrow from the Archives? Elias, even? He couldn’t remember the past few days in detail. He had it on him now, but had that always been the case? Had he left it behind at the Archives one night?

Jon leveraged himself up, grabbing a case file at random from his desk. Right. He breathed in, out, in, out, chest thrumming low until his hands were steady again--or as steady as they ever were. He’d gone to work feeling worse, albeit not by _much_ , and if he had one more pointed meeting with Elias (who may have looked through his notes, who might already _know_ ) about defining a timeline for the Archives reorganization, he was going to _scream._ So he turned on his laptop, read a line, and--he sighed when the recording came back crystal clear. Whether it was in relief or disappointment, he wasn’t quite sure.

* * *

Shortly after the recording, Jon heard footsteps approaching the door and reached quickly for his hat--but they were heavy, yet light, like they were trying to make themselves quieter. Martin, then. He dropped his hand back down and dragged it down his face, relishing in the distracting sensation for a moment, before going back with the sleeve of his button-down to wipe off the sheen of sweat that’d made its home there. Sat up straighter, too, before calling out, “Come in,” before any knock was made. 

Truly amazing what some preparation could do for his mood. Seeing Martin’s face as he stepped around the door didn’t fill him with immediate irritation for once. He’d remove the door if he didn’t value having the space so much (and if Tim and Sasha hadn’t caught on ages ago; why was Martin so slow to catch on? But that wasn’t fair). 

“Spooky,” Martin joked, laughing breathily. Barely a laugh at all, really. Jon scowled. “Um, sorry,” he said, looking chastised, but eyes drifting to look just above Jon’s head. The ears. Of course. 

“I have a bit of a headache,” Jon said, hurriedly. He felt the ears pin back, as if to hide themselves. “The hat was making it worse.”

Martin looked down at the tea he’d brought in, a corner of his mouth dipping into a frown. “Maybe no caffeine, then.” Something in Jon’s chest relaxed a bit at the glance away from his--the features. 

“Ah, no.” Jon made a motion to reach for the cup. “It won’t do any harm.” Most importantly, it might wake him up a bit. He still felt so foggy. And hungry. Always hungry. He hadn’t eaten much this morning. Hadn’t _been_ eating much, despite the hunger--the unique torture of needing to eat yet being nauseous with stress.

And so, Jon took a sip and--ah. He sighed, making no real effort to stop the purr that eased out of his throat. He hadn't realized just how cold he was until he had something so _warm_ in his stomach. 

"Jon?" Martin's voice faded back into his ears, and Jon opened his eyes--when had he closed them?--to the sight of him several feet closer. "Are you feeling alright?" He reached out a hand, and though it stopped halfway to his forehead, a hiss escaped Jon's lips. Martin flinched and, slowly, drew his hand back. Jon found he couldn't look away until Martin's hand was down by his side again, at which point a flush creeped up his neck.

"I…" Jon's fingers twitched around the mug of tea, as if to grab the words from his head. Unfortunately, they were nowhere to be found. "That's...I'm feeling fine, Martin." He took another sip of the tea, honey soothing his throat. Couldn't for the life of him identify the flavor. It was dark, though, watery...like tea. Jon kept his eyes on it. "The--the Rentoul statement. Have you finished the follow-up?"

Martin's voice lightened--not unlike a barista's who had just noticed a customer standing at the counter. Little ripples crept across the tea's surface. "Ah, right, Tim's wrapping up his portion now. Not much to report on my end. Should be on your desk in a bit." His voice lowered again, and Jon could hear the frown in it. "But, uh...You really don't look well, Jon. Is this from the, the, you know?" 

It was like a light switch, honestly. Martin would thrive in retail. Jon had never gotten the hang of the "customer service voice" and never would.

"What?" Martin spluttered. Jon looked up, finally. The other man looked frankly baffled. Ah. He'd said that out loud, probably. His body felt an inch to the left of where it should be, but Jon scraped himself together, sat the tea down, and steamrolled past his blunder.

"When I asked you to grab my notepad for me, do you know if anyone came into my office? Just after I left?" His mind kept ticking back to that, like clockwork. Martin hadn't read it--wouldn't have a reason to. Wouldn’t have the _drive_ to read it, really; he was no researcher.

"Getting a bit of whiplash here, Jon," Martin muttered under his breath-- _truly_ under his breath, and Jon felt a little more distant from himself that he could hear it. Out loud this time, he replied, "Not that I know of." Of course. "Now, I--I know you just took off a couple weeks ago." He shifted in place, hands clasped over his stomach. "But I think you should take off again."

"No," Jon said quickly, pulling a file in front of him. "I'm feeling fine, I don't need to."

"Both Sasha and Tim would agree with me." Martin flexed his hand, looking stern; as stern as he got, anyway. "But I--I can't force you."

"You can't," Jon agreed primly, flipping to a random page of the file. And he wished that all three of his assistants would get into their heads that he was a grown man who could take care of himself. This wasn't even near the worst he'd felt at work, and he'd made it through then. "You're dismissed." 

The words of the file rippled across the page, determined to stay out of focus. The ears atop his head twitched as Martin made his leave with a heavy sigh--a bit of an _angry_ one, though the word didn't suit Martin well, as timid as he was. But he'd been more frustrated lately, whenever something...Leitner-adjacent occurred. "Join the club," Jon huffed to himself. If anyone was allowed to be pissed all the time, it was him.

After a moment more--a few moments?--of staring down at the page, Jon flipped back to the front, aligning the pages neatly again. They stood out starkly against the dark wood of his desk, crisp and white. A newer statement, then. The contrast made his temples throb. And that feeling of being _watched_...

He blinked, and suddenly found himself under his desk, tucked with his knees up to his chin in a corner. The statement lay on the carpet beside him. The harsh lights of the office--and the eyes, something in him whispered--were dimmed by the wood around him, and with the dark came a weight on his eyelids that pulled gradually down.

* * *

Jon awoke with a start, the cat ears trembling and taut atop his head.

“--such a hermit, hasn’t stepped foot outside all day and of course he was here before me. Always been like this…” There were footsteps approaching the door--Tim’s, and Martin’s. “...put the fear of Sasha into him; honestly, one day we’re all gonna come down with the flu and it’ll be all his fault.”

“Well, don’t you think…”

He didn't feel any better-- _worse_ really, cold and aching and exhausted--but he was alert, and he needed to...needed to…His eyes landed on one of the bookshelves lining the office--a newer addition, not the old oak built in to the walls, and with a gap behind it for outlet access. Tim was coming closer, and he still felt like garbage, and Tim might have gone behind his back and might _know_. Did Martin tell him? Why was Martin with him? All of it coalesced into a ball of anxiety in his chest that screamed at him to move, and so move he did.

Clutching the statement to his chest, Jon quickly skittered over to the shelf. The carpet burned his hands as he dropped down to the ground again, sliding to a stop. A brief sensation of--shifting, and he was once again curled up in the darkness, this time with books against his back. The door clicked open, and Jon kept silent.

“Oi, Jon? Bossman?” A creak, a couple more footsteps. “Huh. Maybe he went home after all? Snuck right by us?”

“I think I would’ve seen him…” Martin trailed off. More shuffling.

“You’d be surprised.” Tim laughed. “Especially with how off he’s been lately...probably hasn’t been letting himself recover and doesn’t want to tell us he was wrong.”

Jon’s shoulders were hunched in, his upper arms pressed together. It felt wrong, but he also felt...safe. He could hear Tim and Martin but did not need to _listen._ He was hidden, well and thoroughly. The wall and bookshelf at his sides felt like being wrapped in a blanket.

“...know how it looks, but, this guy won’t let you in unless you force yourself. Getting any kind of friendship is like pulling teeth, but that’s just--well, Jon. I’m pretty good at knowing when it’s too much, not to toot my own horn.”

The pressure around him didn’t ease the ache, but they did distract from it. He leaned his cheek against the edge of the shelf next to him. It was cool to the touch. 

“...used to be. Ever since we moved down here...well.” Flesh against fabric. “I’m happy he left, if he’s not skulking around the break room somewhere. Maybe he’ll finally come back healthy.” Footsteps as Tim turned to the door to leave, and.

And. And oh, god. How did he get in here? The space was scarcely big enough for his head, much less his whole body, and while he felt the (comforting) pressure of the shelf pressing him against the wall, he felt no real strain, no _pain_ that should come from his shoulders and hips practically being dislocated.

“...wanted to look for a file, actually. Think something might have been separated. I…”

How would he get _out_? The dark, before comforting, began to feel oppressive, and he could feel his breathing pick up--but Jon couldn't move. How could he? He didn't know how to, not with his arms and legs bunched up around his torso or so little space to even breathe. A purr ripped itself out of his chest as he gasped for breath. He was so cold.

“Jon?” 

Where before he was drifting through the conversation happening outside his crawl space, now every word seared into his skin. Jon sobbed, biting his lip to stop any tears from falling.

“Jon?” It was closer this time, and a little frantic. More footsteps, and the light from the side of the bookshelf had disappeared. “How…?” 

“I don’t _know_.” It came out as a whine, and he still was on the verge of tears and he knew distantly, if he were in his right mind he would not be acting like this, but he felt so lost and out of control and he still ached and was cold and his head still hurt and

“One--one second.” Jon flinched as the walls around him shook. Martin grunted with effort, and the light grew brighter, and he was no longer a vague silhouette but Jon could see his face and it looked worried. “Can you get out?”  
  
Jon uncurled himself and still felt no pain in his shoulders or his hips, which felt wrong, but he crawled out and was back in the light again, _watched_ again, and he felt too unwell to go anywhere and Martin was here, which he did not know how to feel about, so he sat down and put his head between his knees, shaking.

“Shit!” A cool touch removed itself from his forehead and he blinked, suddenly, face-to-face with Martin who had been standing above him before. He blinked again and felt a brush against his cheek and the world went just a bit foggier. His back hurt. “You need to--can I pick you up?”

Jon just stared, and at some point Martin must have lifted him up because suddenly all he felt was _p a i n_ in his lower back where a hand had touched and he cried out, and then he felt the world move around him until he was breathing against Martin’s neck, too weak to struggle and he really wanted to leave but he couldn’t and the world rocked around him and the door opened but his eyes wouldn’t focus on it, and as he saw Tim his heart-rate skyrocketed but he could feel the hat on his head now. He didn’t _want_ to sleep, he needed to stay awake, but he couldn’t think of why and he felt his eyes drift shut again, his body shutting down against his will and his panic drifting away as the world continued rocking around him, lulling him into...

“Holy shit, is he--”

“..under his desk.”  
  


“...address, so--”  
  


“--be okay?”  
  
  


“...think, I--”

  
  
  


“--soon--”

  
  
  
  
  
  


And Jon faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied about hijinks this is a melodrama now. Listen it’s hard to have hijinks when ur main character is 1) not up for them and 2) purposefully isolates himself from funny people listen please have sympathy--
> 
> Next chapter is...hm. Jon is still not having a good time but maybe you will! This chapter was actually meant to cover a bit more, but it got away from me, so next chapter is pretty much all planned out. Can't guarantee when it'll be out (my classes are murder!) but I'm trying to update this fairly consistently.
> 
> As always, thank you everyone so much for the kudos and comments! I'm really happy that someone's enjoying this. :)
> 
> EDIT: next chapter IS coming, no worries! My health hasn't been great, and that's set me behind on my work--but this is in the back of my head at all times, haha


End file.
